


For darkness, Light

by Niki



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Meetings, Cullen-Centric, Introspection, M/M, Romance, au elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:43:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4464173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niki/pseuds/Niki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>By letting that one child go, all those years ago, he had doomed their whole endeavour.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. For earth, sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neverminetohold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverminetohold/gifts).



> The story and chapter titles from the Chant of Light.
> 
> Thank you to my beta, who didn't mind me rambling on about a fandom she doesn't know, and whose suggestions made this so much better than it could have been.

He knew those eyes.

What had he done?

* * *

When Cullen was young, freshly made templar, and on his first retrieval mission, he stumbled onto a young elven mage child, a boy whose age he couldn’t guess as all the elves were so small. 

The boy was scared, lashing out on his attackers - bandits, by the look of them - with fire and ice and lighting, so very clearly untrained but powerful, so powerful, even without a staff. And yet so clearly an underdog Cullen didn’t hesitate before joining in on the fight, with him, against his fellow humans, because five grown men against a child was not fair, untrained mage or not.

They won, but the victory was hard earned. Cullen had never killed anyone in a fight before, even if he had trained for the job since he was thirteen. No one had prepared him for the feeling of having taken someone’s life, or what to do with a scared child, who also had obviously never taken a life either, and thank the Maker he was all right. 

Now that fear was directed towards Cullen, the boy's gaze trained on the sword symbol on his chest/armour.

“You’re a Templar,” the boy said, in a defensive hunch, hands beginning to flame again.

Without a thought Cullen purged his mana, robbing him of his only defence. 

“Are you here to take me away?”

Yes, well, he was. The boy was Dalish, Cullen deduced from his clothes - a rare city elf could afford to wear leather. 

“In the Circle they can teach you how to control your magic,” Cullen said, wiping his sword.

“Our Keeper can teach me! I don’t want to leave my family! I don’t want to leave my clan! I’m not going!”

He could easily overwhelm the boy, but something in the mingled fear and courage in his stance and eyes made him hesitate.

The Dalish took care of their own mages. They trained them, they protected them - and protected the people from them. The boy was not his duty. His group was on his way to a near-by village for a mage they’d captured when he tried to burn the place. 

No one would know if he let this one go back to his family.

“Where’s your clan?” he asked.

“I’m not telling you!” The boy was almost trembling from a need to start running, to flee, but he feared Cullen too much to move, or maybe he was just waiting to regain more mana.

“Can you find them from here safely?” Cullen clarified, and the boy frowned, whether of confusion or suspicion, Cullen couldn’t tell.

Just then a cry came from their left, a distressed female voice shouting something that sounded like “dah-len,” and the boy’s head shot towards the sound, then back on Cullen, as if questioning.

Cullen could hear the sounds of the rest of his own party finally catching up, the sense of urgency infecting him too, and he nodded to the boy.

“Go,” he said. “Quickly.”

With one last look the boy ran, silently like any forest creature, disappearing out of sight just as the older members of the templar detachment reached Cullen. 

Now he just had to explain why the bandits at his feet had burns as well as sword slashes on their bodies.

* * *

Cullen had thought of his decision a lot over the years, half-fearing he’d face the boy one day, after someone else had captured him, and have his own indiscretion revealed. He wondered if he’d done the right thing, when yet another untrained mage caused havoc in the world, when another apprentice failed their Harrowing, and most of all when the abominations brought by the blood magic in the Ferelden Circle ran wild, killing and torturing and infecting all.

Had he caused such torture as he had suffered on someone else when, inevitably, a demon took over the boy’s body? All that pain and death and destruction would be on his conscience. Never again. He could never again afford to be so lenient, he could never trust any mage that was not tranquil.

Anyone could fall, any one could be infected, everyone in the tower was suspect. How could the Wardens not see it? And even Knight Commander Gregoir was willing to listen to them! How could he ever trust Grand Enchanter Irving again? He had respected the man, even if he was a mage, but now, now, how could he be in the same room with the man without wanting to kill him in case he burst out in demons and…

He couldn’t. He couldn’t stay in the Circle, couldn’t stay in Ferelden. Kirkwall would be better. It would be different. Maybe the nightmares would stop. He didn’t know which were worse, the ones about the torture, or the ones where the elven boy he’d let go all those years ago was the one turning into an abomination, and killing innocents.

* * *

Kirkwall wasn’t better, not in the long run. It was okay at first, but then Cullen started to see himself and his own fears reflected in his Knight Commander, like on a cracked mirror. Her paranoia was even greater than his, seeing blood magic everywhere with a fervour that surpassed even him right after the incident at the Fereldan Circle. 

The Champion had to oppose her openly in the end, trying to protect the innocents among the mages, and Cullen… Cullen had at last come to believe they did exist. The innocents, even among the mages. That there were those who wouldn’t resort to blood magic, who could be trusted to stand against the demons, like the Champion herself.

So Cullen did what he should have done years before - he stood against Meredith at the Champion’s side, protecting the remaining mages from a needless purge. 

It made him feel better about his choice all those years ago, once again. Maybe his little elven mage was one of the good ones, one who could resist the demons and their lures, one who stood against the forces of darkness. Maybe he was dead all these years, but at least Cullen could now hope his fall wouldn’t have been inevitable, that there were mages worth protecting, from more than just themselves.

* * *

The Circles fell, templars were abandoning their posts to hunt the mages, and the mages were fighting a full scale war against the remains of the Order. Again Cullen revisited his old guilt and doubts. Was the little da’len out there killing Templars? Or did the Dalish stay separate from the conflict? 

Cullen was doing what he could, trying to protect what was left of the Circle, leading the remaining loyal templars, aiding in rebuilding the city after the destruction of the Chantry (in the hands of a mage…), wrestling with his loyalty to the dying order, when Cassandra Pentaghast, a Seeker and the Right Hand of the Divine, came to him with an offer: help them return order, instead of fighting against the tide on his own. 

It was more responsibility, but freedom too, to lead and train troops as he saw fit. He did not hesitate. The move tied well with his decision to cut all ties with his past, including the very core of his templar training, lyrium. He was trying to quit using the substance that kept him enslaved by the order, the only legitimate channel to acquire it (unless one wanted to end up like Samson, begging on the streets for coin to buy “dwarf dust” from smugglers).

It made the nightmares worse, being without it, and it came with horrible withdrawal symptoms, but so far he had managed to keep them contained and from limiting his ability to perform his duties.

And then things got worse, because someone blew out the Conclave, their last ditch effort to broker peace, and tore open the sky.

And the only person to walk out alive was a Dalish elf with features Cullen had seen in his dreams for over a decade. For three days, while the elf was unconscious, and Solas and Adan fought to save his life, he waited in agony for what the mage had to say for himself.

What had he done? 

By letting that one child go, all those years ago, he had doomed their whole endeavour, was an accessory to the murder of the most holy, and all those people, and he should have died in that encounter against those bandits in the woods, should have captured the child, should have killed him, should have… should have…

Maybe it wasn’t him? How could he be so sure? He’d only seen him as a child, all those years ago. But… his features, now enhanced by the tattoos (vallaslin, his traitorous mind whispered, the part that had wanted to learn everything he could about the people of the child that had haunted his life, the same part that knew “da’len” was an endearment), the shade of his hair…

But he had to be sure. So when he heard the prisoner was awake, and Leliana and Cassandra were on their way to interrogate him, he had to join them, just for a moment, just to see… And then he saw his eyes. 

He knew those eyes.


	2. For winter, summer

It wasn't him. 

Well, it was the same elf (Mahanon, his name was Mahanon, of the clan Lavellan), but he claimed to have no memory of what happened at the Conclave, and refused to believe he had anything to do with it. And he had helped them defeat the demons, and had closed the rift, and according to the echoes from the Fade had tried to help the Divine.

Cullen wanted to believe that, wanted to believe him, and not only because it absolved him of his guilt as an accessory to her murder. He just... he wanted to believe in him, as he believed in their cause. He wanted to believe Andraste herself led him out of the Fade.

He was surprised when the new “Herald of Andraste” came to find him in the training field, and even more surprised when he gave him a hesitant but bright smile.

“It's you, isn't it?” he said. “You're my templar.” He looked away from Cullen's face and the smile fell off his face. “I mean, not mine as... but the one who...”

“Who let you go when you were but a child.”

“I knew it! I knew _you_. Your eyes... you haven't really changed.”

Cullen ran a finger through his most prominent scar, the one bisecting his lip, almost unconsciously. He looked older, he knew, older and more tired than the eager young Templar of all those years ago.

Mahanon had followed his movement and shook his head now. “You haven't changed where it counts.”

Cullen wanted to know what he meant, because he wasn't sure if that was a good thing—he had wanted to leave his past behind.

“You still care more about protecting people than following the letter of the law. Didn't you leave the Templar Order to join the Inquisition, just because you felt they had a better chance at restoring peace?”

“How do you... It wasn't the Inquisition, then, just an idea... an ideal. A plan, a thought. I'm not sure what we are without the Divine, but I still believe in the cause.”

“I do, too. I am with you—all of you—for as long as I can be useful.”

* * *

The more Cullen learnt about the Herald, the more he came to appreciate him. His little mage boy grew up into a fine man, courageous and righteous—something he might not have believed a mage capable of, only a few short years ago. The thought scared and sickened him. Mahanon was tireless in his pursuit of allies, materials, and knowledge. He seemed to draw people to him, and was soon joined by an awe-inspiring group of mages, rogues, wardens... all loyal to him, maybe even more than to the Inquisition itself, and had he been anyone but who he was, that would have worried Cullen. 

He could even trust his motives when the Herald decided to approach the rebel mages for aid—even if he himself would rather have gone to the Templars.

He was distrustful of the Tevinter mage that joined them for the Redcliffe mission, though. There was just something about the man that rubbed him the wrong way. He refused to consider that it was the way Mahanon laughed at his jokes, or the almost casual seductiveness of the way he carried himself. 

He was feeling protective of Mahanon, that's all. A leftover from having known him as a child, if ever so briefly. Nothing more. 

* * *

His denial died in the flames of Haven, along with Mahanon. Their Herald had given his life to save the people, had bought them the time to escape by flinging himself at the dragon, taunting the leader of the attack at the cost of his life. 

And how precious had that life been to Cullen, if only he had admitted it to himself sooner. Not like he would have done anything about it, but maybe he could have searched for his company a little more often, begged to join him in the field, if his duties had allowed... anything, to have more memories to sustain him now. 

Mahanon's smile, that first time he acknowledged their shared past; the mischievous look in his eyes when he assured Cullen he'd listen to a speech from him if he had one prepared; the empathy in his eyes when he heard of Cullen's past; the fire in him when he talked about their mission, their cause; the way he moved; the way his hair caught the sun; the way he seemed to smile a different smile just for him; the way he teased, but never in a mean way, rather inviting him to laugh along. 

He missed the man already, even if they'd only just stopped moving and set camp, hardly able to see more of Haven than the flames glowing orange and the smoke that darkened the sky. Maker, there was probably little more of Haven left than flames and smoke, rubble covered by the avalanche they'd caused. That Mahanon had caused, to save the rest of them. 

He had a duty to fulfil, but right now he couldn't conceive of going on without Mahanon, without his drive, his fire, his kindness and courage... and his ability to close the rifts. They would go on, in his name, as they had the Divine's, and maybe it was sacrilege to compare the two but he didn't care. 

Mahanon was gone, and he'd never hear his laugh again, see his smile again, feel the warmth of his body when he stood so close to him, so close... He wanted to cry, but felt too numb for it. At least he wasn't alone in his grief. Not even Dorian was smiling now, Varric wasn't joking, the Iron Bull and Sera were quiet. 

Solas kept his eyes trained towards the direction of Haven as if he expected something more to happen. The mage knew things others didn't, maybe...

No. He wouldn't—couldn't—allow himself to hope. Nothing good could or would come out of it. 

And then there was a shout from the perimeter guard, someone was approaching, from the direction of Haven, and Cullen was on his feet and running towards the advance guard without pausing to think.

A figure, moving slowly, jerkily, a shape of a staff, a glint of hair in the starlight... Maker be blessed, it was Mahanon, singed and sooty, cold and tired, falling to his knees even as Cullen reached him, but it was him, alive, moving, _thank you, Maker, bless you, Andraste_ , he was alive.

Cullen stooped to pick him up from where he'd fallen, staff and all, and carried him to the healers.

* * *

Mahanon was glad _he_ had survived. He cared about _Cullen's_ safety, looked so serious, so hesitant, and Cullen... Cullen was tired of hiding what he felt, tired of feeling guilty, when everything had been so clear on the night he'd thought they'd lost him. So what did he say?

“I won't let what happened at Haven happen here. You have my word.”

That... could have probably gone better.

Still, he had vowed to do something, so he let himself seek Mahanon's company, and when an occasion rose, like when he walked in on Cullen playing with Dorian (the man irritated him so much less these days), he invited him to join him for a game. It was good, to spend time just playing, trading stories, not talking strategy or war.

He wanted more of that, more of him, so when Mahanon came to ask him for a walk, of course he said yes. And when Mahanon asked him whether he only saw the mage in him, or the child, of course he said no. And when Mahanon kissed him he...

Kissed him. _Kissed_ him. With his mouth. On _his_ mouth. In the battlements, where everyone could... and then he was pulling back, his expression shuttered, his eyes radiating pain, his vallaslin standing in stark relief against his suddenly pale face and... oh. He hadn't kissed back, had he? He had been in such a shock he hadn't done more than opened his mouth in surprise and...

And he had to fix the situation somehow, but words, words had never been his strong suit, so he pulled Mahanon back against his chest, and kissed him. And after a moment's hesitation Mahanon kissed back, and... huh, okay, that was... really nice.

Really, really nice.

“Cullen,” Mahanon said when he pulled back, “please tell me this means the same to you as it does to me.”

If only he knew what it meant to Mahanon, what he should say, but... he had promised himself to be honest about his own emotions, and maybe he should try that with Mahanon, too, despite his fears. And there was only one thing he could say.

“It means everything.”

And now his elven mage was smiling, his eyes glowing with something as far from pain as one could get, and...

“So you _are_ my Templar.”

There were so many things he could say to that, like reminding him he wasn't a Templar anymore, but he just smiled, pulled him closer again, and whispered his reply against his lips.

“Always.”


End file.
